The Choice: written by TheColdEastWind
by The Cold East Wind
Summary: Johns wedding night doesn't go as planned.


Sherlock walked up the 17 steps to his flat, greatfull that Mrs. Hudson was still out, he reached the landing and was greeted with the hollow feeling that Johns absence had left behind. Everything looked gray, and bleak. He walked blindly to the kitchen and put the kettle on, he turned to leave, then thought better of it and took the kettle off, went into the sitting room and pored himself a scotch. He downed it, ran a hand through the his hair, pored another and headed to his room. Sherlock stood there looking at his resplendent reflection in the full length mirror. Mere hours ago he had helped dress John in the exact same and they had been each other's mirror image. His eyes began to sting at the thought. He wanted out of the damn morning suit. Sherlock would have his own ceremony tomorrow and burn it, for now he just wanted it off him. He sat down the scotch and began to undress, images of John flooded his mind unbidden. Helping John dress had been a mistake and Sherlock had known it, but as best man it had been part of his duties, now came the consequences. Sherlock, couldn't forget the feel of John that morning. Running his hands over his chest as he'd smoothed his shirt, the strong width of his shoulders much wider then his own. Sherlock was now naked, he took in his milky white form and the slightly flushed color of his cock. Thoughts of John affected him even now. A cold shower then. He stood under the cold tap, but there was nothing for it, Johns hands where mentally all over his body, his body ached. His heart ached. He turned the tap as hot as his tender skin could stand and took his cock rough in his hand, that's when the tears started to fall. He braced himself with one hand on the slick tiles as he let the shower rain down on the back of his head pushing hand into his fist until his release came, ripping through him so powerful his knees buckled. By this time Sherlock was full on sobbing and willingly let his body fall to the floor of the tub, he folded in on himself and wailed. He screamed and cried until his throat was raw, and then he screamed some more. His sobs shook his soul, he wanted his heart gone from his chest, he didn't want to die, he wanted to have never have lived at all.

~~~The Tarmac~~~

John, looked up at the night sky as he followed his new bride toward the awaiting Hawker 800, that Mycroft had gifted the use of as a wedding present. It was the kind of night when the sky put on a show, the stars twinkled so that John almost thought he could hear them, so dark yet still so obviously blue it made his heart ache with the beauty of it all. No. That is not why Johns heart ached. He stopped with his hand on the railing of the Hawker, and looked up at Marry on the top step about to board the plane, and could see from the look in her eyes that she already knew.

"Marry...I'm sorry."

"Then don't do this."

"I...l don't have a choice. I thought I did, but I...just don't. I'm so so sorry Marry."

"If your sorry then get on the plane John, and we can sort this out."

John stood there and tried to think of something to say that would make her understand, make her see he had no other choice. Never had really.

"I can't do this without him."

"Do what exactly?"

"Breath." With one last apologetic look John turned and left.

He knew that Sherlock was at home crying, he could feel it and that's what drove him to his decision. The thought of his genius aching over him, it broke his heart, and nothing, NOTHING else matted except getting back to him and fixing it.

~~~Home again, Home again~~~

John, bounded up the steps in true Sherlockian

fashion, taking two at a time, calling Sherlocks name as he hit the landing. No answer. Was that the shower? Shower then. John in such a rush to get to Sherlock, and confess his heart not willing to live another second without ever fiber of his soul being laid bear, he pushed into the loo, all sense of propriety gone out the window and pulled back curtain. The sight that met his eyes threw John into Doctor/solider mode. Sherlock lay on the floor of the tub, blue and trembling. Cutting the tap off John stepped in and forcibly set Sherlocks up, scanning the loo as he did so for towels. John wrapped him up and hefted Sherlock up on to his shoulder, his weight not being a problem, after all he was a waif of thing, so managing the ridiculously tall man wasn't much trouble. John took him to bed toweled his hair and tucked him in, all the while Sherlocks head lulled back and forth and he made small sounds of acknowledgement. John then went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. By the time he came back the shaking had stopped and Sherlock was a bit less blue. Not satisfied, John sat the tea aside, stripped down to his pants and climbed in, pulling Sherlock up with him.

"Drink this, come on, open your eyes." Sherlock obeyed, and blinked up at John, with a weak smile.

"Did I die of hypothermia?"

"No you idiot."

"Are you naked?"

"Mostly."

"Am I?"

"Completely."

"I know I should be asking so many question, but I think...I hope I know the answers already."

"Go on then. Impress a fella."

"Your home."

"Obvious."

"Not just home, but home to stay then."

"Correct."

"And judging from our nakedness and our nearness, I would have to say home to stay...with me?"

"Absolutely fantastic deduction as usual my love."


End file.
